Devil in the Details Read Online Free Page A

not to touch anything! If you touch something, or if
for some reason you think you maybe touched something, go back to
Step 1. Yes, let’s go back to Step 1 just to be safe.
Now we’re in a hurry. You’re going to have to dry your hands
with paper napkins. That’s fine. Just make sure it’s a new package.
Did you touch the part of the package that was sealed with glue? Is
that glue? Glue is dirty. Wash again, just to be safe, then dry
your hands on a napkin that absolutely for sure didn’t touch the
glue.
Use a napkin to turn off the tap and another napkin to open the
door on the way out. Some people won’t even touch the door with a
napkin; they’ll just wait until somebody comes to open the door for
them. But they’re crazy!

∨ Devil in the Details ∧
D evil in the D etails: A
P rimer
    E very mental illness
has its pros and cons, but for all-around appeal, you can’t beat
OCD. It’s not as colorful as multiple personality disorder or as
exhilarating as bipolarity, but for consistent amusement, it’s your
best bet. It’s not a bad one, as mental illnesses go.
Obsessive-compulsives make great party guests. With our droll
little quirks, we provide plenty of conversation material, and
we’re sure to help clean up afterward. In fact, we’ll probably
start washing the glassware halfway through the first round and may
return three hours after the party has ended to bleach down the
floors. Except for the tedium, the time commitment, and the
incessant badgering, we’re a riot.
    We are legion, an army of millions. Though most of us will go to
any length to hide our compulsions, we recognize one another. The
guy using a paper towel to turn the restroom doorknob, the child
counting his eyelashes, the old man wearing Kleenex boxes for shoes
– these are my brothers. We are a secret tribe. We’re like
Freemasons, except that our secret handshake is followed by a
vigorous washing session.
    The mystery is how one becomes a member. No one knows precisely
what causes the disease. In the past it was blamed variously on
demon possession, bad parenting, fluid retention and – my favorite
– constipation. The theory, I suppose, is that your head might
clear once you’ve crapped your brains out. The invention of
psychoanalysis brought an end to the stake burnings and enemas but
did not lend the disorder any new dignity. Freud held that
sufferers were stunted in the anal-sadistic phase. Nice.
    This was the prevailing theory when my OCD first surfaced. I was
three; I probably was stuck in the anal-sadistic phase. But
I didn’t know anything about that, or care. I was too busy
satisfying the compulsive urges that sprang out of my nervous
system and commanded me to do things like poke the tomato plant
with a stick and sit on the baby. These activities didn’t seem to
arouse much concern from my parents. Soft and plump and cosseted in
double knit, my sister could easily be mistaken for a beanbag. As
for the tomato plant, it probably deserved a good poking. “That’s
right, honey, you show that plant who’s boss,” my mother
encouraged. “Say, sweetheart, is that your sister under your
backside? If you’re going to sit on her face, just make sure that
either her nose or mouth is clear. Okay?”
    These compulsions seemed to pass for normal. My compulsion to
swat furniture, less so. This was impossible to ignore or explain.
It drove everyone crazy, but I couldn’t stop. Twenty or thirty
times during the course of a meal, I would hop out of my seat, spin
around, smack the bookshelf behind my chair, then spin back. It was
not an activity I particularly enjoyed. While I was spanking the
furniture, my cereal was getting soggy, my sister was eating my
bacon, and my parents were expanding my vocabulary with a series of
increasingly profane threats. “Sweet mother of crap, Jennifer. What
did the bookcase ever do to you? If you’re going to smack anything,
smack your sister. She’s the one who’s eating all your bacon.”
    A